No light, no light
by ThePinkMoonPlatoon
Summary: A first-person account of the feelings Sherlock has after John leaves him. He never told him a very important thing, but will it matter now? Will-it-won't-it? Sherlock/John. Appearences from Sarah and Mycroft! T for safety.


**Hey guys! This is inspired by Florence's 'No light, no light', a perfect song in my opinion! It's rather angst filled, but the end has some brotherly love! I hope you enjoy it, and please review!**

There is a museum in my head, a collection that has grown bigger and more important, filled with everything John. But now, it feels like a hole in my head, the memories bring heartbreak and pain, not a fluttering in my heart like before. There is an empty space everywhere I look; beside my side at a crime scene; the left side of my bed, cold without him; in the taxi everywhere I visit; at the table I never eat at. He could always tell when I was about to say something wrong, and he's nudge me so I'd say it right. But now it's only silence. There is no-one to be my conscience, and all I can't hear anyone in that silence.

Then there are the nightmares. He was always there to make me happy, and even though I knew he had nightmares I was little comfort. So every time I have a nightmare, it's of John, sweat dripping from his brow as he shakes in agony, fists clenched and tears streaked over his face. I laugh in the corner. I smirk, grin, and giggle. The giggle is the worst, it just reminds me of John, and soon all that fills the room is the sound of the giggle, my face in the same expression as John's always used to be, but viciously so. It sickens me like nothing else.

When the morning comes it is obvious why he is gone. It's clear that it was my fault, and some mornings I accept this fact. Most days I just sob. When I'm finished crying I try to start the day as normally as possible. A cup of tea I never drink, a slice of toast with John's favourite jam he left behind going stale every morning, I check my phone for a case, or in case John has texted or called. He never has.

It was only now, after it was too late, I realised he was my head and he was my heart. And I never bloody told him.

I can remember that day clearly, which worries me. They say the most vivid memories are the most inaccurate, little details are always wrong and out of place. I'd rather remember little, than remember lies.

What I know was true, however, was his eyes. They were bright blue, like the veins that pulsate in his wrists when he holds that Browning tight in his grip. His eyes shone daylight when we ran together, ate together, laughed together and just talked together. I would watch as those eyes closed before he fell into sleep next to me, as he always did since after the pool, and I could feel the cobalt shine from behind the closed lids.

The eyes changed one morning. We had argued about compassion again. I had left a woman in danger even though I knew people were attempting to kill her. What John didn't know was that I left her to try to save him from the very same people. I didn't get a chance between his vicious yells, telling me I didn't care. I do care. Either way, he stormed out with a suitcase and was gone for a week at Sarah's. I wasn't thinking; I thought he'd left for good this time. That's the excuse I used. Idiot.

I knew I should have thrown away that box; I had promised Mycroft that I would. I kept it in the draw under an old picture of me and him, the two happy Holmes children, as we were then. It worked other times to stop me using. I wish it had this time too.

That was the morning of the seventh day of waking up alone. He had never gone away that long and I could only assume the worst. It was the first time in years I'd done it, but my mind was so clouded and I was so lonely. Ha, a week without John and I was falling apart.

He came back two hours later to find me blessed out on the bed, new track marks on my forearm. There was no light in those eyes that morning that never looked so violent. It was at that moment, high as a kite, I realised that I loved John Watson. He looked so angry, so... disappointed.

He waited until I came down again before the onslaught, most of his things already packed in hefty brown boxes.

'Sherlock, you had a choice. Many would make me stay, and few would make me leave.' I remember the flat tone etched with pain, but also a sharp hint of fury, intense and heartbreaking. 'I guess you made the wrong choice.'

I can't remember what I replied, probably something along the lines of, 'I thought you had gone for good.'

I remember my brain screaming at me, '_I'd do anything to make you stay'._

And I remember thinking that there was none of that beautiful light in his eyes.

'What do you want me to say, John?' My voice was as calm as ever, I am disgusted to admit. I couldn't bear to sound weak with emotion.

He just shook his head and left, door slamming, rattling like a screen door in a hurricane.

And I did nothing but watch the space he had just been in.

My brain suddenly came back online, almost 10 minutes after John had left. It cried out to me to run, find him, and bring him home! But when I ran to the street there were just a thousand faces in his place, and I was alone once more.

I stayed in Baker Street a week more, not venturing outside after searching in the storming crowd. I had to make it right between us; he was the revelation I needed. I would get it right next time. I would try because I love him.

The conversation replayed in my mind over and over again, but it pained me too much to think about in that first week. I would find a resolution and then tackle that horrific parting exchange.

I called him once or twice. He never answered. I texted him about a new case we had. He never answered. I called his name into the darkness, tears splattered on my face. And still he never answered.

1 month, 8 days, 3 hours and 20minutes later (I count) I saw him in a cafe. He was with Sarah, hands locked together across the table, a light tricking laughter seeped between them. My heart melted froze again, and then cracked in two. John had moved on. He looked... happy. Well rested, contented.

That's when he spotted me, our eyes locked; me sitting on a little bench outside the cafe (waiting for a murderer) and John in a plush armchair. I couldn't help but noticed that the light was gone from his eyes. He didn't look like he did when we were running together and laughing those weeks ago. He didn't look alive without that light. I think my heart shattered again. Who knew a stare could cause such damage to me?

But then there was something else. When he looked back at Sarah, his eyes didn't light up either. He wasn't unhappy with me, per say, he was unhappy with everything. I knew it was my fault, and that destroyed me more than I thought possible.

And that's when I did the stupidest thing I've ever done; I went to talk to him. I had a choice to walk away and forget it all, let all the memories fade away, but I vowed not to because I love him. I'd do anything to make him stay.

Sarah had gone to the bathroom and I stood next to John, simply staring.

'Tell me what you want to me to say.' I asked.

'Sherlock, I don't want you to say anything. We've been through this.'

I knew what I had to say to him, but would he come back even if I did? What would he say if I told him I'd fallen in love with him? I always say I'm a sociopath, but it's a bit of a misdiagnosis. It's easier to say sociopath than to explain that I chose to distance myself so that if I do see something, feel something, it doesn't jeopardise the case, or people's lives. I can care. I do care.

It's so easy to say it to myself, but to say it aloud to John, my love, to say it out loud, it's impossible.

But then I see those azure eyes again. The light gone. And so I say my revelation.

'I love you. Come home.'

This time he can choose. Stay away and carry on a dull life with Sarah, or come home with me and... And be what exactly? Even if he does want to come, it doesn't mean he'll love me. But you know what? I don't think I care. As long as John comes home I'll be happy; I'd do anything to make sure he stayed this time.

But what I want doesn't come. It's as silent as ever, and this hole, this gap in my mind is grasping all hope and burning it like a funeral pyre.

'Sherlock, I can't have this conversation with you, not tonight, not ever.'

And my heart, which I have denied having so many times, shuddered in my chest. I could feel the dying convulsions ricocheting against my ribcage as I looked into those eyes that showed he meant every word.

I don't understand it! Everything I have learnt of love says he should have come home with me and he should love me and we'd be happy together until our dying days. But what am I supposed to do about rejection?

'John...' I was unaware I was even speaking.

'What do you want me to say, Sherlock? That I love you even though you don't care about anyone? That I want to spend my life with you even though you're an egotistical prick with no social awareness? You don't have a heart, Sherlock, not really. You don't know love, I would know better than anyone after living with you for two years.' He stood from the table and walked over to Sarah who had just emerged from the toilet. She saw me, hostility in her eyes, but John placed his hand on her lower back soothingly and so complied and left the cafe with him without a second glance.

I was aware of most people's eyes on me in the cafe, so I gave them my dirtiest scowl and swept out. I walked for a while, I'm not sure how long I did but I found myself down by the Thames in the darkness. I felt someone watching me from behind.

'Mycroft'

'Ah, Sherlock, good to see you'

I swivelled around to my brother and, although I would never admit it, I was glad to see him.

'Some things don't work out, Sherlock. You know that.'

'I do.' I was not in the mood to use complex sentences.

'Yes, but emotions never were your strong point, were they, dear brother.'

I sighed because this conversation had happened more times than I can count, 'Mycroft, I don't want to talk today...'

He opened his mouth to talk, but with a flick of my wrist he stopped.

'Can I stay with you?' I said this fast and quiet, embarrassed immensely, but I couldn't go back to 221B tonight.

He looked like I had punched him in the face, and it cheered me up that I had surprised him.

'Excuse me?' he said with a smug smirk.

'Please don't make me say it again.' I murmured.

He laughed, but nodded and gestured to the car and I, for once in my life, got in without complaint.

Mycroft may be an insufferable, egotistical, self-centred man, but I am too. And I guess... I guess that's ok, because (Lord help me I am getting so sentimental) he's my brother, and he'll never leave me. Oh god, don't leave me.

'Promise you'll never leave me, My.'

He looked more destroyed at those words than when he found out I'd OD when I was 17.

'Sherlock... I promise with all my heart.'


End file.
